


Live for Now

by dynazty



Series: The Not So Secret History [1]
Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: (kind of), Canon Compliant, M/M, Post-Canon, dramatic boys, francis's wedding day, richard's pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21703396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynazty/pseuds/dynazty
Summary: “I don’t want to go back,” he admitted, tilting his head up to meet my eyes.His hair glinted bronze in the weak yellow light emitting from the street lamps above us.“Okay,” I said. “So, don’t.”
Relationships: Francis Abernathy/Richard Papen
Series: The Not So Secret History [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1637038
Comments: 17
Kudos: 143





	Live for Now

_**“Everything flows, and nothing abides, everything gives way, and nothing stays fixed.” - Heraclitus** _

_____

The wedding was held in a magnificent Episcopal church just outside Lowell, ten minutes away from the New Hampshire border. It resembled somewhat of a baby cathedral, with high-arching ceilings and wine-red upholstery that tastefully lined the pews; the stained glass windows were simple but delicate, casting a myriad of colors on the altar below. Surprisingly, Francis had relayed little complaint about not using a Catholic church to hold the ceremony, clearly attempting to take the high road to avoid conflict with his soon to be in-laws. 

“It’s not like I confide in the Pope that much,” he later confessed to me at some point during the reception. “It wouldn’t be a loss on my part.”

Nonetheless, I could practically feel the discomfort radiating from Francis’s side of the congregation; tight-lipped aunts and freckle-faced elders with flaming red hair looked upon the service with severe distaste. The only pleasant faces in the crowd included Francis’s mother, Olivia, and her boyfriend of the week, Derek. (Derek seemed too confused to convey any severe emotion -- from my understanding, it was only their second date.) 

Unfortunately, I could not include myself in the list of pleasant demeanors. I was a walking combination of jet-lag and unease; I had taken a red-eye the night before from LAX, only to arrive at the DoubleTree hotel and have four missed messages waiting for me on the lobby’s telephone. 

The clerk at the front desk had given me a harried look as he slid over a pad of paper with the messages written down after asking me, monotonously, if my name was Richard Papen.  


“Bloke named Frank kept calling, asking for you. Stopped about an hour ago, but it was something about a wedding,” the clerk had said. I didn’t bother to correct his name usage. “You’re welcome to try calling him back, but I doubt he’ll be awake this early.” 

It had been 4:28 a.m. 

“I’ll try in a few hours,” I had replied wearily, not particularly wanting to deal with a whining, panicky Francis that early in the morning. 

When I did finally get the chance to call him back after getting a tentative three hours of sleep in my hotel room, he had practically screeched into my ear the minute the receiver clicked on. He explained to me in a high-pitched vibrato that his best man (Eddie? Earl? I couldn’t recall the name, but he was a supposed old high school friend of Francis) had fallen ill with pneumonia. 

“In August?” I’d replied incredulously. 

Ignoring my comment, Francis had pleaded for me to take Edgar’s (Emmett? Edwin, maybe?) place and stand-in for best man. 

My initial reaction was to chuckle good-naturedly, then hang up. Alas, I knew myself too well to circumvent the request; I found it particularly difficult to say no to people, especially people like Francis. He managed to act like a kicked puppy at all times. 

With a resigned sigh, I’d said to him, “What do I need to do?” 

The morning had gone by in a whirl of tumultuous excitement; I had been picked up by Francis in a sleek matte-black SUV and driven immediately to what he called an “emergency tailor”. The groomsmen were all to wear identical teal tuxedos and white neckties; there was only one left for rental, but it was a size too big on me. 

Francis had sent me into the alteration shop with explicit instructions to finish the measurements by nine o’clock. The tailor had promised the suit would be finished by 2 at the latest, exactly thirty minutes before the groomsmen were required to be at the church. During that gap, Francis dragged me along to run all his last-minute errands and tie up any loose ends regarding the wedding plans. After stopping at several different florist companies, a grocery store, and a lawyers’ office, he'd admitted that there wasn’t a lot for him to do the day of the wedding. Truthfully, he had just wanted to get out of his family’s chokehold until after the ceremony. 

Whatever unhappy or discontented feelings residing in his head had been completely obscured by raw anxiety. Not once did I get a chance to talk to him seriously. I hadn’t seen him since his suicide attempt a year prior, but he didn’t seem much better. 

Sure, he wasn’t lying in a hospital bed with an IV puncturing his arm, but he was still as unusually pale and jittery as he’d been the day of.  


Finally, after an exhausting day of driving back and forth across Lowell, Francis had dropped me back off at the hotel with my newly tailored suit hanging in a garment bag over my arm. As I’d clambered out of his car, he’d given me a genuine, albeit tired, look of gratitude. 

“Thank you for doing this,” he had said. “It means a lot that you’re here. You’re not mad, are you?”

“Mad?” I'd asked dumbly. 

“Mad. I understand if you are, I practically uprooted your entire day. If you want to back out I’d completely--”

“I’m not mad, Francis,” I had cut him off. “It’s not your fault your best man flaked. I’m happy to step in.” 

“Right,” Francis had mumbled, “Good. And, um, you don’t have to worry about writing a speech or anything.”

“I won’t worry,” I'd replied. 

That was the last I’d seen of Francis until the ceremony finally rolled around. Needless to say, I was a mess.

It started at 4, but groomsmen were supposed to be at the church at least an hour early. I had no idea why -- I spent almost all of that hour sitting in the corner of a brightly-lit dressing room watching the other groomsmen slick back their hair and straighten their ties. I didn’t recognize any of them, and I wasn’t sure how Francis knew them -- one of his qualms was his palpable lack of companionship in Massachusetts (other than his unwavering stream of one-night-stands; silently, I hoped they weren’t products of those.)

Then, exactly six minutes before four o’clock, Francis came veering into the dressing room holding an armful of gold and white boutonnieres. He thrust them into our hands, sweat beading his temples, and told us to get them pinned and ready immediately. We were to line up at the entrance of the church out of sight of the guests in t-minus 3 minutes. As soon as the music began, we were supposed to meet in the middle aisle with our bridesmaid -- in my case, the maid of honor -- and walk down the aisle behind the priest and the groom. 

Francis whirled around after the brief recap of the procession and met my eyes with a stark intensity I had never seen. “Richard,” he said frantically, “We don’t have a ring bearer, so you’re going to have to hold the rings. Please try not to lose them, they were terribly expensive.”

He deposited two identical gold bands into the palm of my (shaky) hand. 

My throat tightened immediately. “Okay,” I croaked feebly.

By the time we were instructed to queue up behind the pews, my entire body was trembling. Priscilla’s maid of honor shot me a capricious side glance when we began to walk down the aisle, arms linked. I feared she could hear my heart beating. 

I don’t know if I was nervous because I’d never been to a wedding before, or because I’d never been to Francis’s wedding before. Part of me wanted to put on a show for his friends and family, to show them I was loyal to his well being. The other part of me wanted to tear my uncomfortable teal tux in half and fly straight back to my poorly-lit flat in Los Angeles, wherein I could curl up on my cheap papery sheets and never have to think about my years at Hampden again. 

Alas, this was not an option.

Music flowed elegantly out of a tall pipe organ adjacent to the altar where Francis was standing, hands clasped behind his back and face unreadable. I tried to catch his eye as we approached, but his stare was stoically locked in front of him. As we got closer, I could see his skin was tinted a light shade of green. 

The procession was brief. Priscilla’s dress was a dazzling shade of eggshell that hugged her figure in an intentionally flattering manner; her skirt was voluminous and her veil was extravagant, flowering out behind her plated hair and spilling down to the floor. Her cheeks were rosy with excitement as she neared the altar, clutching onto her father’s arm ardently. Without a doubt, she made a beautiful bride. 

Francis’s expression gave nothing away, and he remained impassive as she stepped up to face him. 

The priest droned on for several minutes, saying things about God and love, holy matrimony, sickness and health, et cetera. 

I had zoned out, my right fingers tapping the side of my leg anxiously until I heard Francis clear his throat and begin his vows. The words were as traditional and Catholic as they could get, and he seemed to be forcing them through his teeth. 

“I, Francis Abernathy,” he began tightly, “Take you, Priscilla, for my lawful wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.”

I stared at Francis’s profile while Priscilla began her exchange. He was completely detached, his eyes trained somewhere above his soon-to-be wife’s head. His hands were slack in hers, and I could see a slight tremor in his shoulders. 

Anyone else would have taken his stiff disposition as charming soberness, but I could see straight through it; after taking him to a myriad of doctors appointments and witnessing his panic attacks and hypochondriac tendencies for myself, I knew better. He was doing a surprisingly good job of not melting down on the spot. 

Then, I heard my cue:

“And now, the rings.”

I started, caught in the headlights of the audience’s gaze as they shifted their attention towards me. I fumbled for a moment and patted myself down, not remembering what pocket I’d put them. Swiftly, I pulled them out of my front trouser pocket and dropped them into the priest’s open hands. 

The couple traded the rings routinely -- “With this ring, I thee wed” -- and then were given the prompt everyone was waiting for. 

“Groom, you may now kiss your bride.”

I politely turned my eyes away as Francis bent his neck down to meet Priscilla in the middle. There was a startling crescendo of applause and an eruption of organ music. I could hear Priscilla’s father shout, “That’s my girl!” from his place in the front pew. 

The event began to pick up the pace the minute they broke apart; we were ushered out of the hall in a sweep of excitement and paraded into a flourishing garden plaza behind the church. Through the moving throng of guests, I could see ornate round tables dotting the vast stretch of lawn and strands of fairy lights stringing between baby-pink cherry trees. The cobbled center of the plaza was cleared away to create a makeshift dance floor, and a small jazz band was poised and ready to start playing just off to the side. The sun was just barely peeking over the tips of the trees, and the plaza was bathed in a dark lavender hue. Chatter filled my ears as I was swept further into the garden, and guests began to make their way towards their assigned seats. 

At one point, amidst the raucous noise, I could hear a voice hiss in my ear, “You’re sitting with me.” The next thing I knew I was being pulled towards the wedding party’s table by a clammy, white hand. I could make out a hint of red hair ahead of me.

I sat next to Francis for the rest of the reception. Or, rather, I sat next to his empty seat -- he grew increasingly busy throughout the evening, welcoming his guests and receiving endless rounds of congratulations that kept him away from the table for ample stretches of time. Priscilla stuck close to him, a pleasant yet vapid smile plastered on her face as friends of friends and distant family members shoved flowers, gifts, and compliments towards them. 

Dinner dragged on for close to two hours, with platters of soup, salad, lobster, risotto, and mousse circulating between the tables. I sat quietly, only speaking when spoken to (which, frankly, was not often -- I was practically invisible), and poked abhorrently at my plate. I watched as Francis’s mother and Priscilla’s maid of honor recited their toasts, and I watched as Francis and Priscilla shared a stiff first dance to an instrumental rendition of “Dream a Little Dream of Me”. 

It wasn’t until long after dessert had been served that I finally got a chance to talk to Francis alone. 

The reception had wound down to a point where I wasn’t required to hang around or watch anything, so I quietly slipped from my seat and probed the edges of the plaza for an egress. Finally, I found a skinny brick pathway just beyond the buffet tables that led further into the garden and wrapped back around the grounds of the church; some older neatly-dressed gentlemen had been using it for smoke breaks. 

I sucked in a deep breath of fresh air as I broke out of the reception and followed the pathway as far as I could until I reached a small alcove of trees out of eyeshot of the plaza. I leaned against one of the trees and let my head fall back, head swarming. I couldn’t recall when my headache had started, but it was now pounding at my temples tirelessly. I couldn’t have been drunk or anything -- the only alcohol they’d served thus far was a fruity champagne that I’d only taken a few sips of before growing sick of it. 

“Hey,” someone said. 

I startled, having not heard anyone come up behind me, and spun around to find Francis walking towards me with a faintly-lit cigarette hanging between his lips. 

“Hi,” I replied. I couldn’t tell if I was relieved to see him or not. 

He propped himself up against the tree next to mine and blew out a spiral of smoke with a remote sigh. Neither of us spoke for a few long moments. 

Then: “I want you to drive me to the liquor store down the road.”

“What?” I asked. 

“I want you to drive me to the liquor store,” Francis repeated, not looking at me. “I need a break. And some real alcohol. Shall I draw you a diagram?”

“Won’t people notice you’re gone?”

His face lit up maliciously. “Is that a yes?”

I quirked an eyebrow. “No, I’m serious. And why do I have to drive you?”

“Because I’m asking. And because I want you with me.”

“What,” I faked a scoff. “You afraid of going alone?”

It was then that he turned to me. His expression was sincere as he said, “No, I just want you with me. For old time’s sake. We haven’t really had a chance to catch up, have we?”

“No,” I agreed slowly. “We haven’t.”

He dropped the butt of his cigarette and stamped it out with his heel. “So,” he said, pulling a set of car keys out of the pocket of his tux and dangling them in front of me. “Shall we?”

Begrudgingly, I followed Francis to his car. 

It felt strange to climb into the driver’s seat of his SUV -- it was significantly larger than the convertible he’d owned during college, but there was still a sense of deja-vu as he placed himself next to me and flicked the radio on. 

I pulled out of the parking lot as stealthily as possible, the faint sounds of music from the reception still hovering in my ears, and began to drive away. Francis rolled his window down and stuck half of his arm out, letting his fingers drag through the night air. 

The bodega he wanted to go to was only a few blocks away towards the center of town -- I’d seen it earlier when I had first arrived at the church -- but for all I cared, it could be hours away and I still would have driven Francis there. I desperately wanted to believe I wouldn’t have, but that simply wasn’t the case. I didn’t want to lie to myself. It was no secret that Francis still possessed his mysterious, persuasive charm that had drawn me to him in the first place -- the only difference now was that he'd matured into it. 

“I feel as if we should be exchanging small talk right now,” he spoke up. 

“I guess,” I said. 

“Let’s try it. How’s the City of Angels treating you?” 

“That depends. How’s Boston treating you?”

He sighed mellowly. “I see your point. Have you finished your dissertation?”

“I have,” I replied. 

“So, are you working then?”

“I’m a T.A. for an English professor at the UC, but it’s very temporary. Just barely covers the rent.” I shot him a side glance. “I’m still living with roommates if you can believe that.”

“Fantastic,” Francis mused. “And are they awful?”

“The worst.” 

He chuckled. “Delightful. Are you going to stay in California for much longer?”

“I haven’t figured it out,” I said. “Are you going to stay in Massachusetts?”

“I suppose I have to, don’t I? Now that I’ve pledged myself to a lifetime of misery.” He ran a hand through his hair. 

“I’ve forgotten how dramatic you are,” I lied. 

“Yes, well, it’s hard not to be theatrical in my situation. Are you still seeing Sophie Dearbold?” He turned the conversation back on me. 

“I’m not,” I said, refusing to elaborate.

He responded with a slight hum of thought before facing the window once more. 

I pulled into the parking lot of the liquor store a moment later, the large neon “OPEN” sign that was hanging in the window proceeding to assault my vision. A little bell rang as we walked into the fluorescently lit store. Racks of brightly colored chip bags, magazines, and candy bars lined the linoleum aisles. It was a complete juxtaposition to the dreamy, elegant event we’d just escaped from. The cashier -- a tired-looking teenager with severe acne -- scrutinized us as we passed him, and it was then that I realized our outfits must have looked strange out of context.

Francis made his way immediately to the fridges at the back of the store, leaving me to roam amongst the tabloids and gum flavors alone. He reappeared not two minutes later holding a bag of peanut butter pretzels and a bottle of wine whose label I didn’t recognize. He checked out quickly, then pulled me back outside into the frosty night. 

I moved to go back to the car, but he pulled me in the other direction towards a cement wall separating the parking lot from the sidewalk. 

“Sit with me for a minute,” he said. 

So I did. 

We sat next to each other on the barrier with our feet just barely scraping the sidewalk and the bottle of wine positioned between us. We said nothing for a very long time, watching the road in front of us. It was completely silent, save for the electronic buzzing coming from the neon sign in the bodega’s window, and no cars went by. The town was dead. 

Francis handed me the bottle after taking a sip. I followed his lead. 

After what felt like hours of stillness (though I know it was only a few minutes), he spoke carefully:

“This feels like the end of something.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, a little alarmed at his sudden melancholy tone. 

“I mean,” he began, “If this were a movie -- if our lives were put on screen -- this would be the point at which the credits would begin to roll.”

“Why do you say that?” 

“Don’t you feel it too?” He traced the rim of the wine bottle with the pad of his finger as he gazed ahead. “This is the end of us. After tonight, I will completely lose control of the direction of my life, and I have no doubt you will too.” 

“Because of your marriage?”

“Not because of my marriage, no, but rather because I’m _letting_ myself get married.” He closed his eyes as if he were warding something away. “I’m giving myself up to someone I do not care for at all because I no longer care for myself. Is that not my true demise?”

I didn’t know what to say. I stared at my feet, hands resting limply on my knees. 

“Julian--” he paused, as if the name was a hard one to force out -- “Julian always told us to learn as if we were to live forever.” 

I looked at Francis’s profile. He was all sharp angles and shadows. 

“ζουν για πάντα,” he scorned. “How stupid. No one lives forever. No one.”

“Francis,” I said gingerly, “Why are you doing this? Giving yourself away?”

“Didn’t I just say? I don’t care for myself anymore. But Priscilla does. Truly, I would rather be in her hands than in my own.”

“But will you be happy?” I felt like I might be asking too many questions that had rather asinine answers, but Francis was being so open that I couldn’t help myself. 

“I doubt I’ll be happy wherever I go,” he said. 

Without thinking, I stood up and moved in front of him. The tips of his pointed leather dress-shoes grazed the space just below my knees. 

Some voice in my head told me to capture this image or I would regret it for years to come. Francis; bags under his eyes, leaning back on the palms of his hands with one shoulder shrugged up to his ear, a contrapposto figurine made out of flesh instead of marble. 

Francis, who had tried to commit suicide not six months before. Francis, who I’d driven to so many different doctor’s appointments and hospitals that they had become routine. Francis, whose country house I’d spent so many blissful summer days in. Francis, who was all I had left of Hampden. 

“ζήσε για τώρα,” I said before I leaned down and pressed my mouth to his. 

All was still. 

It was just me and him, together in a bodega parking lot, wearing ridiculous rented tuxedos that didn’t fit us right. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Languidly, he returned the kiss. My hands slid up, one resting at his waist while the other cupped the pale skin under his jaw and around his ear. He tasted vaguely of cheap wine and tropical champagne. 

It wasn’t fast or aggressive, but so simply human that it was almost unthinkable. It was starkly different from the night of Bunny’s death. That night, it had been clumsy, fake, anxious. This was none of the above. This was natural. 

We broke for air, our breaths mingling together. Francis’s hands had traveled up my chest and rested at my collar now. 

“What was that for?” He asked forehead pressing against mine. His eyes were glittering with vulnerability -- I had brought his defenses down. 

I shrugged, letting my hand rest at the nape of his neck where his hair curled up. “You’re here.” 

He laughed in disbelief, throwing his head back and pushing me away gently. “Richard! Don’t bring that up now!”

I laughed too, but didn’t let go of him. “When should I have brought it up, then?”

“Never,” Francis said, before leaning forward and catching my lips chastely one more time. “Never bring it up.” 

“Fine,” I agreed, pulling back. I took a moment to glance at my watch, then did a double-take. “Shit, it’s almost ten. Someone’s got to have noticed you’re missing by now.”

“I don’t care, Richard.” 

“But Priscilla--”

“I don’t want to go back,” he admitted, tilting his head up to meet my eyes. 

His hair glinted bronze in the weak yellow light emitting from the street lamps above us. 

“Okay,” I said. “So, don’t.” 

He held my gaze. “Really?”

“I don’t know, Francis. It’s your call.”

He stood up, hands now clutching my own. The peanut butter pretzels and cheap wine were forgotten. 

“I don’t want to go back,” he said seriously. “I really don’t want to go back.”

“Have you signed the marriage license yet?” I asked, pulse resonating in my ears. 

“No,” he replied. “Priscilla and I agreed not to sign it until tomorrow morning, along with our lease.” 

“Then let’s go,” I said.

“What?”

“Let’s go. Let’s leave Massachusetts.”

“And do what? Go to California and stay with your awful roommates?” 

“No, no,” I said. My heart was in my throat. “Let’s just go somewhere that no one knows us. Not forever, just for a little while. I don’t want this to be our end.”

“Okay,” he said. “So, where?”

I remembered something he’d said, years ago, when we had both thought our options had run out. “We’ll find the weirdest place we can. How about Montreal?”

“Montreal would be nice,” he said. “Mother says that have really good salmon.” 

“Then let’s go to Montreal,” I voiced. 

“When?”

“Now.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. We’ll get in your car and drive to Montreal right now. You can call your mother from our hotel and tell her you’re safe.”  


“But what about--”

It was my turn to cut him off. “Francis, I don’t care.”

His face was more alive than it had been since I first arrived. I wanted to kiss him again, but I didn’t. 

Instead, I took his hand and pulled him back to his SUV.

And as we drove through the quiet, lifeless town of Lowell with the windows rolled down and Francis’s hand gripping mine over the console, I knew that what Julian had taught us was wrong. 

He had told us we needed to learn like we were going to live forever. But we weren’t going to live forever; Francis was right about that. Living forever didn’t matter. 

We had to live for now.

**Author's Note:**

> ζουν για πάντα -- "live forever" in greek  
> ζήσε για τώρα -- "live for now" in greek (according to google translate, at least)
> 
> thank you so much for reading! all constructive criticism, feedback, and questions are welcome and encouraged.
> 
> come harass me on [tumblr](https://dynazty.tumblr.com/)!! i promise i don't bite, and i'd love to chat with you all :)


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